


always looking left and right

by kyrilu



Category: Always Crashing in the Same Car (2007)
Genre: Boot Worship, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Kneeling, M/M, Post-Canon, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2625494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim tries to deal with the stacks of paperwork on his desk. Administrative nonsense and bureaucratic red tape to scan through, approve, disapprove. The words starts to blur into each other, black globs smearing into nonsense. His head falls back against his chair, and with his eyes closed, he begins to count the ways that Bill Mackinnon could destroy him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	always looking left and right

**Author's Note:**

> I did not expect to write this tonight? But I guess I did...
> 
> (Dear anonymous person who linked this short film, thank you so much! I did not know I needed it in my life, and I'm so happy that I got motivated to write this fic.)

On the outside, it appears innocuous. After a meeting, Bill slides a light hand on Jim’s shoulder, and says quietly, “Come see me in my office later,” as if _he’s_ the one in charge, as if _he’s_ the one calling the shots.

Jim knows that it’s a command. It’s been a week since his little fuck-up, and Bill hasn’t alluded to the incident, not since he paraded those tapes at the press conference. They’ve only discussed business, strained conversation across a room, but sometimes, sometimes, he catches Bill with a knowing smirk on his smug stupid face.

Now, all Jim knows to do is nod. A stuttered jerk of his head.

There’s that cunting smirk again. That fucking smile keeps him up at nights. Tossing and turning. Makes him want to cry like a bloody useless baby again - everything’s still at stake, he’s more vulnerable and exposed than he’s ever been, the broken windshield and the _blood_ \- but he doesn’t. He just keeps it in and shakes.

He’s shaking now, in fact.

“Stop trembling,” Bill murmurs. His fingers are still on the edges of Jim’s suit, playing a slender aimless tune. “Not in public, Jimbo. Wait until later.”

Bill’s voice drops, softer. “I’ve always known how weak you are. But no one else is supposed to know - that’s your image, after all. Keep smiling.”

Somehow, this snaps Jim out of his pathetic frozen moment. He’s a politician, the prime minister, for fuck’s sake. He’s supposed to have balls of steel. He forces his body to control itself - be still, still, still - and he looks at Bill evenly. He clears his throat and says, “Alright. Later, Bill.”

“There we go,” Bill says, clear satisfaction colouring the mock praise. He withdraws his lingering hand, leaving the grey fabric ruffled and warm, and he walks away.

Jim touches that place on his shoulder, his fist clenching and his knuckles whitening.

 

* * *

 

Jim tries to deal with the stacks of paperwork on his desk. Administrative nonsense and bureaucratic red tape to scan through, approve, disapprove. The words starts to blur into each other, black globs smearing into nonsense. His head falls back against his chair, and with his eyes closed, he begins to count the ways that Bill Mackinnon could destroy him.

 

* * *

 

He really does attempt to get himself into the appropriate mindset to fight back. To hold his own and assert authority and all that bollocks. But that particular train of thought is put on hold when he enters Bill’s office and the first thing he sees is the soft glow of a telly next to Bill’s desk.

Bill is twiddling a pen in his hand, balancing it between those fingers that had rested on Jim’s suit oh-so-fucking-tenderly. He’s watching the screen intently, and he says, without looking up, “Oh, I _love_ this part.”

There’s fuzzy CCTV footage of a dark car onscreen. A raggedy woman pushing a grocery cart stocked up with blue and black bags. The car surges forward, and--

Jim doesn’t need to know what comes next. The windshield shattering, and the woman’s face bloodied, and the cart upturned. The dark car stopping, the CCTV showing the side of his face, and then the noble PM driving off like a coward. He knows exactly what happened in this goddamned ready-made scandal.

He strides toward Bill’s desk and he snarls, “You _fucking_ bastard, give me the fucking tapes.”

Bill clucks his tongue. “No, no, Jimbo. Can’t do that. It’s my insurance. My ticket to make sure that you’re being a good boy. You know that I’ve been the man with the brains here. It’s the _image_ for you, remember?”

He still isn’t looking at Jim. He’s watching the footage, the empty street with the body. His pen is like a broken, erratic pendulum in his grip. Irrationally, Jim wants to yank the pen away from Bill, to hurl it at him like he had thrown that pen at Bill before.

“We can watch it again,” BIll says in that gloating drawl of his. “Or we could watch it from another angle. Do you want to see the one that gives a clearer view of your face? Or the one that shows your car’s license plate? You don’t give the orders here any more. You heel when I say heel. You fetch when I say fetch.”

“I am not your fucking dog.”

Bill drops the pen on his desk; it makes a pinging clatter. He says, “You are exactly that.”

There’s something rough at the back of Jim’s throat. Something like coarse sentiment. He doesn’t want to say it out loud. To say that he had always thought, throughout his time in office, that even though Bill was a disagreeable mutinous prick, he was on Jim’s side. An ally. Jim never thought it would come to this. Not - not like this.

“Come here,” Bill says, gesturing for Jim to stand in front of his chair. They’re much closer now. “Now. On your knees.”

Jim says, “You - you can’t be serious, it’s melodramatic metaphor--”

“ _On your knees_.”

Jim is shaking once more. He drops to the ground, the carpeted office floor cushioning his legs. He doesn’t meet Bill’s eyes.

Bill’s hand falls into Jim’s hair, petting him like the dog he had been likened to earlier. Jim lets out a harsh breath, quivering and quaking -- he’s going to break fucking apart, he’s going to be just pieces of himself, his breaths feel like knives twisting and tearing apart his insides--

“You stupid fucking idiot,” Bill says, sharply. “ _Shh,_ Jim. _Shh._ You’re not having a breakdown with me now. You have to keep your head on straight so that you can listen.” He gentles his touch on Jim’s hair, and it’s more like a caress than anything. Rhythmic strokes from the back of his neck to his forehead, nimbly disrupting and smoothing strands of hair simultaneously.

It’s just -- it’s _warm._ It feels like how Bill had touched him on the shoulder. That demanding, steady demeanour coupled with a bizarre gentleness. Bill keeps shushing him: _shh, Jimbo, shh, it’s alright. I fixed it so we wouldn’t get fucked. I’ve got everything under control. You’re safe with me here. All you have to do is listen. Shh._

Jim chokes back a sob. Bill’s lying. He knows that Bill is lying, that it’s not about being safe, but this feels so damned good for reasons he cannot fathom. There’s tears pricking his eyes. He wants to beg Bill to make this nightmare stop. To make things better, even though he’s the one making it hurt.

“So weak,” Bill whispers, a comment that Jim can barely hear. “Jim, bend your head down lower.”

He does.

“Kiss the tip of my shoes. Then say it. Come on, Jim. You know what to say.”

Jim presses his mouth over the black of one of Bill’s dress shoes. He doesn’t feel like he’s moving, more like he’s floating, drifting, and the shoe tastes like leather, rough and dry. He draws back slightly, and he rasps, “You’re the boss.”

“Do it again.” Bill’s eyes are bright. His palm is straying into his lap.

Jim doesn’t need to be prompted for the second kiss. He pokes his tongue out - and the tears are coming out this time, and the warmth is pressing the bottom of the stomach and it keeps feeling so fucking good that he hates himself - and he licks. Lapping at the dryness again, letting the taste flood his mouth, coating his gums, his saliva wetting the shoe and the skin near his mouth.

Abruptly, Bill puts pressure against Jim’s mouth. A simple step of his shoe, digging against the roof of his mouth. There’s a burst of pain; Jim wants to gag.

Jim coughs, “Bill--”

“Shh,” Bill soothes. “I’m right here, Jimbo. You’re okay.” He twists his foot, and there’s blood blossoming from Jim’s mouth, like bitter iron. Bill’s hand has quickened its motion in his lap -- even at his feet, Jim can tell that he’s starting to breathe rapidly.

Jim jerks away. He wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, and God help him, he leans down again. He sets his cheek against Bill’s shoe and feels a stream of words leave him: _please. Please, you’re the boss, please please please. Make everything better, make it go away--_ and then he’s not very coherent any more, _pleasepleaseyou’rethebosspleaseplease_ coalescing into slurred fragments.

One of Bill’s hands settles back on Jim’s hair again, fingers curling down to their roots. Bill shudders, lets out a gasp, still with that other hand working at his lap, and he comes in his trousers. The orgasm leaves his breath ragged, and they stay there for a few seconds, Jim still prostrated before Bill.

Finally -- “Up, Jimbo, up,” Bill says, softly, beckoning.

Jim lifts his head off of Bill’s shoes and has to wonder how he looks like, blood and saliva and tears on his face and his previously immaculate suit wrinkled. He is still on his knees, and he’s so fucking tired. He doesn’t know how to define this -- whatever the hell that happened.

There are sparks in his head, fading sensations, and he wants to hold onto them as long as they last. And then he wants to sleep. For forever, maybe.

“You did good,” Bill murmurs. He touches Jim’s face, fingers rubbing away the tears. “You did very good.”

Jim doesn’t intend to speak, but suddenly he says, a drowsy mumble, “I’m sorry.”

Bill was right. Jim’s weak; he’s pathetic. His apology might be aimed to queen and country, and it might be to Bill for never listening to him earlier, for not admitting that he deserves to be treated like this. He deserves this.

He finds himself resting his head on top of Bill’s thighs. Maybe he is the pet after all.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

Bill seems to understand what he’s trying to say. He gives Jim a light, gentle smile - Jim doesn’t think he’s ever seen Bill smile at him like this before - and he says, “It’s alright. You get it now, Jim. I’ll make sure nothing will hurt you.”

 _The tapes_ , Jim thinks, but it’s merely a passing ghost of a thought.

He’s so goddamned tired. He closes his eyes, and it feels like the world has disappeared. He doesn’t think of the ways that Bill Mackinnon could remake him.

 


End file.
